We walk briskly down the beach. It’s December, freezing, thirty-something. My sneakered feet are bricks of ice. I ball my hands inside my mittens, try to match his strides. The tide surrounds us, recklessly spreading over patches of sand like liquid fingers of death. He hops over pools of surf like he’s sixteen again. I attempt an awkward leap on my good knee. He cheers and I’m delighted I stuffed that glossy brochure of Orchard Grove Senior Living in today’s trash.
A woman with a golden retriever stops to chat with my husband. Women always blush when my husband enters a room. I’m amused, slightly starstruck. My best friend is secretly smitten. Hints I should own at least one black cocktail dress. I tell her I’m happy in my thrift store flannels. That my husband doesn’t care for girly girls, thank you very much. She nods, leaves a copy of Vogue on my nightstand.
I read the twenty-five ways to keep my love fresh and shiny, about astrological soulmates and sex toys. Nothing about the glue, like raw honey, that binds us, mends all our broken parts into one.
When I was twelve I fought with my mother hours before she jumped in front of a train. I know a guilty heart can fizzle, drop in dried clumps at your feet. He knows when to peel off my sweat-soaked pajamas, draw me a bath, or bring me cocoa with peppermint schnapps. And when he moans, dreaming of the war, or stares at his book, not turning a single page, I put Chubby on the turntable, and we twist until he finds his smile.
We never had children. Growing up too fast can do that. Instead I get him a baseball glove for Christmas. He buys me tap shoes and a Goofy hat from Disney World.
Finally we arrive on the other side of the beach, bask in a patch of sun. That’s when he picks me up, pretends to toss me into the ocean. When I stop shrieking he sets me down and we stand side by side, holding hands, watch the foamy waves. I gently tap his head with mine, point to our shadows in the sand. We’re two powerful giants, glued together, legs extra long and spindly.
Phyllis Rittner loves all things flash. Her work can be found in Fictive Dream, Emerge Literary Journal, Portrait of New England, Wrong Turn Lit (Best Microfiction nominee), and others. She can be found on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/phyllis.rittner
You know there are things that baby boomers say sometimes that make them sound like old fogies (Whatever a fogey is. It’s from the French word fougeux and is similar to but unrelated to old codger).
It’s not your imagination. We, baby boomers, are spending an inordinate amount of time looking at our computer screens and cell phones. Back in 2019, Pew Research found the 60 and over crowd spent more than half their leisure time (about 4 hours and 16 minutes) in front of screens (mostly online videos). Currently, Nielsen reports that adults 65 and over watch YouTube on their TV twice as much as 2 years ago. Over-50 Americans spend 22 hours per week in front of a screen. One survey found that 40% of adults 59 to 77 say they are anxious or uncomfortable without access to their devices.
When I was a kid moving was exciting…an adventure. There was the busyness of packing and loading and unloading and trundling into new places. I’m older now. Quite a bit older. And the prospect of moving into a senior center is not so much exciting as inevitable while adding the hope of new adventures after my staid condo existence. I’m looking forward to an indoor swimming pool and an outdoor garden and a medley of exercise classes. Not to mention a broad swath of residents. The only problem is, they’re all old people. Huh! I should know because for many years I showed a movie once a month to these nearby-neighbor residents. I always prided myself as being a very open minded and generous young man by connecting with these senior tenants. It was a fulfilling experience. The only problem, now, is that I’ve evolved into the age frame of that long-ago audience, no longer the accommodating youngster leading post-film discussions. Huh!
Many great literary works make some reference to water. Rivers run through stories and generally represent the movement of life. The constant movement. Change.
There. I said it. Boomer energy. Until just recently, I was totally unaware that there was such a thing. But there is and if I’m the first one to relate this to you, it’s time to get on board.
